


paradise lost

by confidantes



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M, rokudou mukuro the king of blackrom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 01:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11093700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confidantes/pseuds/confidantes
Summary: Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? Because, baby, you must be Satan.(Hibari/Mukuro, the hateship to end all hateships.)





	paradise lost

**Author's Note:**

> posting a bunch of old fic from 2014 i dug up, don't mind me

Letting Mukuro in your front door was a mistake, because now you’re prostrate on the ground in a pool of your own blood and the bastard has a trident at your throat, a boot pressed against your back.

“Now is that,” he asks you with an air of condescension, “how you treat your guests, Kyouya? I thought the Japanese were particular about their hospitality.”

“Do not,” you seethe, “call me that.”

He leans down and tips up your chin. “I only came to say hello." 

If you were younger, if you were still feral, you would have bitten his finger off and been snarling at his throat again in seconds. The instinct still churns like an ocean inside you. But you are twenty-one, now, and this war with Mukuro has been raging on for years, so much so that this war has become less about bloodshed and more about the moral greys the two of you have been painting over with your fingers. 

This war has become something of a testament to your willingness to let things slip past.

Knowing Mukuro, he couldn’t possibly have thought the same things. The world is only his plaything, and you are only one fraction. (1/x=?) He lifts his foot, turns you over with a toe, and straddles your waist, clicking his tongue as he tips forward. "Did I hit your face? Was that me?” A gloved hand brushes the scrape on your cheek. “Am I still the only one who can best you in battle? I was rather hoping Tsunayoshi would have reached my level by now.”

You swat his hand away and taste acid on your tongue. “Don’t touch me.”

He smirks. “If you missed me, you don’t have to be ashamed.”

“I am nothing of the sort.” Your tonfas are gone – strewn somewhere on the other side of the room – so you grab at his neck with your bare hands – squeeze, squeeze, _squeeze_. “You are an inconvenience to my lifestyle.”

Mukuro doesn’t seem to be choking at all. (Of course, it’s an illusion.) The sound coming out of his ghostly mouth is a warbling laugh. “Kyouya, hasn’t anyone told you that playing hard to get isn’t cute anymore?”

He disappears in a cloud between your palms, and the real one looms over you, hands cupping the sides of your face. His hair falls over his shoulder and tickles your nose; he’s gotten into the annoying habit of growing his hair out recently, meaning you’ve had blue spilling across tiles and sheets and pillows any time you touched him, meaning you find blue in your shower drain these days,

meaning that the blue you have fisted in frustration and in aggression and in _satisfaction_ has begun to stain your hands.

You wonder when hate had twined paths with obsession, when blood and metal and teeth had come to mean skin on skin, when Mukuro had learned to look at you like you were something he _owned_.

And you feel so sick.

He leans down and kisses you, upside-down, your eyes watching the bob of his Adam’s apple, his hands already finding the gap between your shirt collar and your clavicle, and you want your hands to reach up and find their home around his neck, but you can’t.

You can’t, because this war is still an equation you don’t know how to solve.

Letting Mukuro in was a mistake.


End file.
